Strangers in a park

on the sidewalks, in the grocery lines

faces—like blank money, with the same value.

Character doesn’t advertise

it rears up, like a snake, when it needs to kill.

Strangers have a story—they might even believe it

but they are strangers to themselves

lies serve more of a purpose than the truth

there is more at stake, past 30

people don’t read—they don’t read each other

they can’t look inside and read themselves

they are hypnotized, distorted—like they are listening underwater.

So, what do we do—when we are expected to have relationships with each other?

We don’t have a manual to understand

what can only be known

around a campfire.

Secrets are rare, because gossip abounds

but the secrets that have been buried underground

will never be dug up

because they don’t exist

in the hidden mind.

The human being is a labyrinth of lies

innocent, and not so innocent

feeling for feelings in the dark

like trip-wires on a minefield

in a silent war—oh, to keep it silent

it’s the only way to win.

If one gets to the end of their life, and doesn’t know the person sitting across from them

doesn’t know, why a certain person dislikes them

doesn’t know their faults—separating them from the whole

what kind of life was it?

In the wasteland

families are broken

parents visit their children after a stressful day

we are ghosts to each other

looking inside,

and seeing the living room wall.